98 The Gourmet ekend t0 There's more to Boston than beans and brown bread. At the Meridien there are chocolate truffies and a welcoming aperitif. Then a culinary tour de force as food expert Sheryl Julian guides you through a daz- zling demonstration of French cooking. Expenence true continental luxury in the Meridien's elegantly appointed rooms. Relax wIth a croissant breakfast in bed, or on Sunday discover why our brunch is called "the best brunch in Boston." The Gourmet Weekend at the Meridien. Indulge yourself., or give one as a gift to someone who appre- ciates the finer things. $75 00 per person based on double occupancy for 1 night. 2 night packages available ' ..j .s . ' '.'. 11/ ........ , ' " j '. f,: , T ,.}: 5 f _!( . . fll ___1iå -t HOTEL MERIDIEN BOSTON Reservations: 617 451-1900 or call your trdvel agent. " ( :'0 \ <J\:J " / rity-though Johnny Moss is a great inspiration: in his mid-seventies, still playing every day, and still winning. Even so, I'm thirty-eight now, and I wouldn't want to think my next thirty or forty years are going to be spent in a poker game. I've already been play- ing professionally for twenty years. In the same game, really. I mean, how long is a poker game? If you play for a living, there is no end to it. Just be- cause it breaks up doesn't mean it ends. The players may go away, but they are still thinking about it, replaying hands, working out their strategy. And they'll be there again the next day. Them or someone else. "It's utterly unproductive. You can't even carryon a conversation. The losers say, 'Shut up and deal,' and anyway how much input can there be with guys who play twelve hours, then go home and sleep? What's happened to them? What are they going to talk about? Their dreams? A few years back, there was one old guy, a regular, who didn't even know there was a war on in Vietnam. That's why we all enjoy it when someone comes in from out of town. But we don't get many of them, because the game is too high. "So we have our family of Vegas professionals. Part of the tension of the game is not created by the size of the stakes; it's a family tension, a terrible intimacy. It's like being stir crazy, doing time with the same seven guys in a cel] day after day. If someone told me I had to go to the Horseshoe and play for forty-eight hours straight, I'd wonder what I'd done wrong that merited two days in jail. You're just stuck there. There's nothing to see, and, for me, there's not even that much interest in the game anymore. I've seen it all before. Everything that could happen has hap- pened: I've fallen asleep in the middle of a deal; I've played an entire hand without being dealt any hole cards. I've not yet had a guy die on me at the table, though others have. Apart from that, you name it, I've seen it. "I would willingly pay a hundred dollars a day to have a news ticker go by, so I'd have something to occupy my mind. As it is, I try to manufacture interest. Sometimes I pick up my cards and look at all three at once. Some- times I squeeze them very slowly to keep myself in suspense. Sometimes, if I'm drawing to a flush, I arch them up so that the upper card reflects on the back of the lower; then I can tell whether it's black or red and narrows my chances down to even money. Anything to alleviate the boredom. I look at every pretty girl who passes, and every well-dressed guy. That's not good for my poker; you're sup- posed to concentrate. But I'm so bored I do it anyway." Drache had been tired that day, af- ter a long poker session constantly in- terrupted by people bringing him problems about the tournament and its organization. The voice of the switch- board operator intoning "Telephone call for Eric Drache, telephone call for Eric Drache" was a continual ground bass to the din of the casino. He was probably also tense about the imminent seven-card-high competition, in which his professional reputation would be at stake. But now he had made it to the final showdown, and he seemed bored again, despite the occasion, despite the money involved, despite the over- whelming competitive urge to win. When all was said and done, it was just another poker game. Drache and Myers lounged noncha- lantly in their chairs and made jokes to each other sotto voce. The television producer fussed around them irritably, trying to create the impression of seri- ousness and strain he considered ap- propriate to the worth of the chips-a hundred and thirty-five thousand dol- lars-divided between them on the ta- ble. He gestured to the camera and sound men to close in on Drache. Drache grinned at the tournament's floor manager, an old friend from the game in New Jersey. Speaking clearly for the benefit of the microphone prob- ing the air above his left shoulder, he said, "If I lose two pots in a row, Frank, call time out." Then he ducked down, took a Klee- nex from a box beneath the table, and wiped his fore- head. The television pro- ducer signalled brusquely to his cam- eraman to switch to Myers. Drache leaned back and said to me, "In the last year, I've spent more time with A.]. than I have with my wife." Myers nodded cheerfully, while his wife and his odalisque daughter, sit- ting behind him, smiled their ap- proval. Drache was probably not exaggerat- ing. He and Myers seemed to know each other's game so intimately that they might as well have been playing with all the cards exposed. Drache bet on an open pair of aces-a very strong hand-but when Myers raised